I went to print that report this morning. Packed a travel bag and took the stairs to the nineteenth floor. A huge white and chrome expanse. Everyone up there looked important and very, very serious.
A woman at reception asked if I was there for the employee wellbeing and productivity optimisation session.
“Absolutely not. I’m here to print stuff.”
She nodded past a couple of fancy people hunched over solid-wood desks. The printer was next to a stationery cupboard full of thick Moleskine notebooks and bourgeois Bic Cristal Softs. We have a stapler with no staples and a rusty staple remover on the seventeenth.
That’s when I saw the stranger. Wearing a lime green cardigan with her sleeves rolled up. Looked expensive. She was leaning over a notebook, scribbling away at something. I wondered what she was working on. Whether it was something I could help with. There was no cactus on her desk. Perhaps she took it home. Bet she has a nice place.
“Are you alright?”
The receptionist appeared at my side. She pointed at the printer. “Just press the big button.”
“Yes. Thanks. It’s different from the old one. This is a Kyocera, isn’t it? Nice.”
“It’s the one from downstairs,” she said. “Someone kicked up quite the fuss about it moving.” She held eye contact a little too long before wandering off. Petty. I pressed the big button, plugged in my USB stick, and selected the report.
The printer was whirring away when I picked out another sound above it. The stranger was humming. I couldn’t place the tune, but it sounded familiar. Normally that would irritate me. I’ve left companies for less. But this had rhythm. Not quite a melody, but definitely intentional. More like a code.
I should’ve gone over. Established whether she actually worked here or just travelled between floors collecting people’s belongings. I’d rehearsed a few things to say if I saw her again. Funny things. But they all depended on her being at my desk and holding a cactus.
“Everything alright?” The receptionist again.
“Yes. Just waiting for it to finish.”
She looked at the printer tray.
“Isn’t that it?”
It was. I gathered it all up and tapped the edges. The stranger was still writing. I said “Cheers,” in her general direction. Loud voice. But she didn’t look up. Lost in her work. Am sure she would have acknowledged me otherwise.
Back down the grubby stairs, I plonked the paper on the boss’s big corner desk. He was on a call but stared at me and raised his index finger. Presumably his way of expressing gratitude. He covered the mouthpiece to say:
“Did you get lost?”
Prick. Should’ve raised a finger back at him.
Might print my quarterly target spreadsheet tomorrow. It would make it easier to read. Never printed anything before the stranger turned up at my desk. Now look at me go.
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